


Turn Left

by mm8



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, British Politics, Chaos Theory, Episode: s04e11 Turn Left, F/M, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Multi, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something on John's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dazzling End

_"Powering up!" Anthea called out to the subordinates in front of the large rusted computer unit. The colorful twisted wires that ran down the length of the grimy floor to the mirrors and lights began to spark slightly._

_John shielded his eyes from the powerful spotlights as they turned on around him one by one, almost achingly slow. He caught a glance at that_ thing _in one of the mirrors and quickly focused elsewhere-- anywhere would do. "This will work, then?" he asked, adjusting to the wires and other odd equipment that had been placed around his body not a moment ago. "This is fool-proof, right; it'll work?"_

_The man in the sharp three-piece suit looked up from the piece of garbage on the floor that he had spiked with end of his umbrella. "Hm? Oh, dear me, no. This is all in theory."_

_John let out a strangled laugh. "Oh, of course it is, brilliant."_

_"Just remember, John." The man without a name took his umbrella, minus the garbage at the end, and twirled it in the air. "All you have to do is make sure you change your body's movements by one minute past ten." He checked his pocket watch and nodded._

_"And how do I do that exactly?" John threw up his hands in annoyance. This man was infuriating with his lack of information. "Run up to myself in the middle of the battle and have a good argument?"_

_The man let out a polite laugh. "I'd like to see that."_

_"Activate Lodestone!" Anthea ordered to the crew, paced stiffly, her hands behind her back._

_John kept his eyes fixated on the strange man as the spotlights flickered violently and he heard a strange deep whirling sound._

_"One minute past ten," the man with the umbrella reaffirmed as he began to step away from the strange _time machine_ contraption._

_Everything this madman had told him suddenly made sense to John. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together becoming clearly. He smiled to himself. "I think I understand now. You told me before that I was going to die. But that wasn't exactly what you meant, was it? You meant that if I don't do this, right here, right now, this world will cease to exist." He paused for breath, and ignored the look of admiration on the man's face. "But if I do this, then a better world will take its place, this_ Sherlock's _world. And I'll still be alive. Right? If I do this, I won't die?"_

_The man's face was grim, his voice blank. "I'm sorry. I don't have that information."_

_"What!?" John screamed. If only he could move from this spot, but his feet feel glued to the pavement. He wanted to deck this guy. "You told me I had a future! With Sherlock! I can't die! What's the point of all this if I die?"_

_Anthea gave the final order, her voice firm and steady, "Activate!"_

Sunday Afternoon, November 29, 2009

Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was in the middle of one hell of a battle. This wasn't supposed to be happening. _A quick drop-off to get new supplies_ they had said, but the Taliban had somehow caught them by surprise and now the 5th Northumberland were pinned. Their only line of defense was a few abandoned huts and a quickly-made sandbag bunker.

The air was thick with explosions and dust. Shouts of orders and cries of pain assaulted John's ears. 

Out of the corner of his eye he observed as the comrade to his right, Paul, a late twenty-something, with a constant chipper attitude who would always show people letters and photos of his fiancé back home, winked at John. It was probably a mutual signal of _'We'll get those bastards now'_ \-- and then the next second John watched as Paul tumbled to the ground, an expression of pure surprise on his face for a split second then one of twisted pain. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose. John moved swiftly toward his fellow solider to aid him and made a quick grab for his medical kit.

The hair on the back of John's neck stuck up and he swore as something hot and fast whizzed by him. He reeled around in horror as a nurse positioned close behind him, Bill Murray, crumbled to the ground, clutching his hand to his bloodied right shoulder. 

John glanced at the first solider. Too late, John whistled. Paul's eyes are glazed over and there was a visibly gaping hole in his left cheek, showing broken teeth, blood and muscle. John made a dash to the nurse, "Hang on, Bill!"

Friday Night, January 1, 2010

John was in his barracks the under a warm blanket that had been donated to his regiment by some charity not too long back. The internet connection was decent tonight so he was taking advantage by checking up with his friends and family back in the UK.

He had emailed Harry a few days ago, asking her the general niceties about life; how was her Christmas and New Year's, how was her therapy, how were things with Clara, had she started looking for a job yet? He received two replies back. In one, Harry was obviously drunk, the text was all wrong; the email was incoherent and barely legible. She abused him, writing things like 'Piss off, closet arse bandit!' and 'What kind of a person runs away from his own problems to a war zone?'. The next email had been sent a little over 12 hours later; her spelling and capitalization had greatly improved and Harry apologized, though she didn't answer any of John's questions about how her life was going.

He'd tried emailing Bill Murray, the nurse whose life he had saved not long ago, but it had bounced back. Poor Bill had been honorably discharged and sent back to the UK. As far as John knew, and he knew very little, Bill was living in London, getting therapy for his PTSD and keeping up a blog. It concerned him that the entries to Bill's blogs were seemingly empty, with titles like 'Nothing' and 'Pointless'. He commented on the entry 'Pointless',

> Hi Bill. I tried emailing you but it bounced back. How are things? I'm in London at the end of the month. Do you fancy meeting up?

  
John continued onto one of the popular news blogs to catch up on the recent goings-on back home. The actor David Tennant was signed up to do a pilot for a show in America called Rex is Not Your Lawyer. There had been a great number of floods plaguing parts of Great Britain and Ireland, the cause being that the temperatures were higher than normal.

"Oh fuck," he cursed. No signal. At least he was able to comment on Bill's blog. He leaned back in the office chair, hands behind his head and exhaled a long sigh. At any rate, he only had one more week in this place until his tour was over. He was getting tired of all the snow, sand, and blood.

He heard the flap of the tent fabric move and shifted around in the chair. "Oh, hi," John smiled at the man who'd entered. He was sure he had seen him before, though he couldn't remember where. "I'll just be leaving then." As he stood up he was forced to double over when his blanket fell onto the floor. "Sorry about that—"

The soldier, face suddenly gone pale, whipped out his Browning handgun, aiming it directly at John. "Don't move!" he shouted in his most commanding tone. "Don't fucking move!"

"Easy, easy," John soothed. He had no idea what he had done to provoke this guy into wanting to shoot him. Maybe he was mentally unstable and hated poorly knitted donated blankets. "I'm going to stand up, now, okay mate?"

"Slowly," the solider commanded, "very slowly."

John did as he was told, adding an extra reassurance by holding his hands in the air. When he stood straight and tall, he asked, "Everything alright, then? See, I'm just like you. I'm just a poorly paid solider of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. I'm not the enemy."

"Turn around, all the way around." The solider didn't seem convinced. His dark eyes were narrowed; his finger on the trigger twitched ever so slightly. 

John moved very sluggishly, feeling like an elderly woman trying to do some ancient folk dance as he turned his entire body 360 degrees with his arms stiff in the air. "Satisfied?"

The soldier sighed heavily, putting his gun away in a swift movement and with the same motion taking out an old dirty napkin to wipe his sweaty brow. "I'm sorry," he said, fully apologetic. "Maybe everything's getting to me, you know?"

"It gets to all of us now and again, mate. What's your name?"

"Clarke, sir." The solider saluted. "Private Simon Clarke of the 40th Regiment Royal Artillery, sir."

"Do you have anyone to talk to back home, Simon? Mum, Da? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?" 

"No, sir. All of my relatives passed on when I was very young. I was raised in an orphanage, sir."

John felt troubled. This guy couldn't have been much older than 20, recently joined the ranks if he could guess. No family, no friends going into the military on your own can be rough. "Look, I know a good camp doctor, a good friend of mine that you could talk to about any problems you're having." Without another word he took a piece of scrap paper and a pen and scribbled down the information for Simon and passed it to him. "What set you off anyway? Don't like these blankets?" John laughed, trying to make light of the mood now.

Simon Clarke's face was serious and did not join in John's laughter. "No, that wasn't it. I thought I saw something on your back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up in two weeks. Stay tuned.


	2. The Rueful Fate of Sherlock Holmes

Monday Afternoon, January 25, 2010

His first week back in London was _mostly_ uneventful.

He rented a dingy bedsit in Earl's Count. John could have rented a decent flat in central London, but he didn't see the point in wasting money in rent until he got himself a stable job so he knew he could afford to pay for the place. Likewise, John knew that he could have gone to live with Harry, but honestly, they'd be at each other's throats all the time. They had Skyped two nights before he was shipped back to the UK and that had been a total disaster. A cheap room would do for now until he could find a proper job and afford something nicer. Somewhere far away from Harry and her infamous drunken tantrums.

He'd met up with the lads from the old Blackheath Rugby team last night. John had an enjoyable time with them. However, it did make him feel _old_ that he couldn't down as many pints like they still could.

He stupidly left his mobile phone in the pub and when he went back the next morning to retrieve it he saw that he had missed calls and texts from Harry, Bill, and for two job interviews he'd scheduled for later in the week. 

On his way back to the bedsit, he rang Bill and arranged to meet him in a few days, on Wednesday the 28th. John ended the call as soon as he could because he had a funny feeling that the cabbie was giving him dirty looks. The driver was an older gentleman, set in his ways no doubt. John gathered that the man wanted to be left alone with his own thoughts. Perhaps he was trying to figure out where his address was because he was driving quite a backwards way to get to the destination. When John tried to give the man a helpful hint the cabbie would sneer or even _growl_ at him. He wasn't sure what the man's issues were but he didn't want to get involved. 

After what should have been a simple ten minute drive and ended up being forty minutes of a scenic view, the car lulled in front of the bedsit in Kensington. John tipped the man low. It wasn't his usual style, but he wasn't a good cab driver. 

Upon seeing the tip, the cabbie spoke for the first time, in a mean-spirited Cockney accent, "Forget something, berk?"

John huffed away, tempted to take down the plate of the cab, but thought better of it. He wanted to settle down and have a proper life in London, avoid trouble. The cabbie wasn't worth his time. 

Once John was in the safety of his bedsit, lying down for a quick nap, he let his irritation wash away

Tuesday Morning, January 26, 2010

John was wearing one of his best suits for this interview with the St. Marylebone GP Surgery. It was a little far away from his bedsit but he didn't plan on staying there forever.

As he sat back in one of the waiting room chairs to be called he took in his surroundings. The magazines they kept were all fairly current, but the carpet had lost its bounce years ago and its original splendid white color had now faded to dark beige. The wallpaper didn't fare much better; it had a dated 1970s style and was peeling from the top. 

"Dr. Kelly isn't here again."

John snuck his nose deeper into his magazine but kept his ear out to the two elderly women to his left. 

"Oh no, what's wrong this time?"

"Pregnant. She was bursting at the seams last time I saw her."

"I thought she was knocked up last year?"

"Well, Ethel, you can have a baby more than once."

John held back a snort. 

"Dr. Watson?"

He looked up to see a young woman with a white coat addressing him.

"Oh, yes. That'd be me." He gathered up his briefcase and shook her hand. 

John glared at her for a moment. She didn't seem to be looking _at_ him but past him and it bothered him greatly. He was about to mention it, but then the woman seemed to shake herself visibly, and turned her attention to John's face before shaking his hand.

She smiled warmly. "Dr. Sarah Sawyer. I'll be conducting your interview. This way please."

John could have sworn he heard of one of the elderly women say as they left the waiting room, "I don't _think_ he can get pregnant, can he Mattie?"

 

He should have been nervous but he wasn't. He felt confident sitting across from the attractive woman who would decide his fate. His posture was impeccable; a big grin was plastered on his face. His job interview trainer from Kings College days would be proud of him now.

Dr. Sarah Sawyer was a professional woman. Her hair was pulled back and slightly frazzled. Her face was naturally friendly, open, but he could tell that she was trying her best to look stern.

She kept glancing up at him and back to his CV every few seconds. "It's just locum work," Dr. Sawyer stated matter-of-factly.

"No, that's fine," he responded.

"It's just," she put down his CV on the desk, filling the void between them, "you're a bit overqualified."

"Could always use the money." John replied with all honesty. _Shit,_ he thought. That was neither a professional nor a smart answer to give a future boss.

Dr. Sawyer twitched her eyebrow. "We've got two off on holiday this week and one just left to have a baby," she informed him. "This job might be a bit mundane for you."

John flashed a smile. "Mundane is good," he said. "Sometimes mundane works."

She grinned back and picked up his CV, giving it another look. "It says here you're a soldier."

"And a doctor." He added, feeling that the _doctor_ bit should be empathised more than the _soldier_ part.

"Anything else you can do?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.

He gave a cheeky smile. Usually people took this opportunity to inform their future employer of a skill or how valuable they'd be; however, telling his future boss an odd fact about himself was more of John's style. "I learned to play the clarinet in school."

"I look forward to it," Dr. Sawyer said, brushing her fingers against John's.

Admittedly, he was a little taken aback, but that didn't stop him from smiling slyly and squeezing her hand back. As Dr. Sawyer walked him out of the office, her hand on his lower back, they chatted about possibly getting a drink together at a pub that was down the street from the clinic. John nodded and grinned charmingly at Mattie and Ethel, who immediately giggled like and blushed like schoolgirls.

"Oh, I do hope he's _my_ doctor!"

"Not if he's my doctor _first_!"

John laughed all the way back to his bedsit, even on the Tube. Everyone looked at him like he was mad and kept their distance.

The clinic was definitely a yes, but he still had one more interview to go at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College before he made his final decision on which job to take.

Wednesday Night, January 28, 2010

He'd arrived at the pub ten minutes early and took the liberty of finding some seats at the bar and ordering a lager form himself and a glass of water for Bill. He checked his mobile. Three voice messages: one from Dr. Sawyer with a salary offer, one from Harry asking when they were going to meet up, and the last from Bill saying that he was in traffic and would be at least five minutes late.

Well fuck.

John sat back, sipping on his lager. He expected that the bar would have a match on, but instead it was tuned into some kind of police conference. No sound emitted from the TV as the subtitle went along the screen.

_"-- suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."_

He raised an eyebrow. _Linked_ suicides? That went against the nature of suicides. The D.I. on the TV seemed extremely tense, like he wanted nothing but to dash out of the room. The silver-haired man chewed on the inside of his cheek and glanced down, avoiding the cameras.

_"Well, they all took the same poison."_ The D.I.'s mouth moved as the subtitles scrolled. _"They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication."_

_"These three people, there's nothing that links them?"_ a reporter asked.

_" There's no link we've found yet but we're looking for it. There has to be one."_

Suddenly, the D.I. and the curly-haired woman beside him both looked down, not at their notes but at their laps. John leaned forward and noticed the woman scowling down at her mobile.

_"If you've all got texts, please ignore them."_ She seemed agitated, even across the telly.

_" It just says "Wrong"."_

"John!" A strong deep voice bellowed from across the pub.

John tore his gaze off the TV to greet Bill. The man looked worse for wear. He used a simple cane that helped support his visible limp. What had caused that John wasn't sure, and he tried his best not to stare. Bill looked scruffy; he was well on his way to having a full beard. There were light patches of grey in his hair that hadn’t been there a month before. 

John patted Bill on his good shoulder as he heaved himself up on the bar stool beside John. "How you doing, mate?"

Bill gave him an insincere smile. "Good, I suppose." He glanced at the TV, scoffed and signaled to one of the barmen. "Oi! Change the channel will you? A game, any game. Just not something retarded like _curling_ or _figure skating_."

Before the channel was turned to an ice hockey game, John watched the subtitles scroll. The police news conference was finishing.

_"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"_

_"Well, don't commit suicide."_

"Have you heard about this?" John asked, turning back to Bill. " _Serial_ suicides?"

Bill's lips twitched before he took a small sip. "Yeah, the cabbie had that interview on during the ride. Bloody stupid."

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks and watching the game companionably. John looked from the corner of his eye to see how Bill was holding up only to find that Bill was white faced and staring at him, pupils wide and hands shaking.

"Bill, what's wrong?" He asked urgently. His doctor instincts were beginning to set in.

"There's…" Bill's voice sounded so frightened. "There's something on your back, John. Something I can't quite see."

John took hold of Bill's hand. "Bill, it's me. John. There's nothing on my back. It's just me. Look at me, Bill."

The nurse seemed to snap out of his trance and glanced at their folded hands, then back to John's empty back. "I'm… I'm sorry, John. I'm…" Bill took out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his brow. "I haven't been myself."

John nodded and decided to change the subject. "Where are you staying, Bill? Rooming with some family?"

Bill shook his head and spoke, his voice still shaking ever so slightly, "Hostel. I talk to my folks on Skype a couple times a week, though. They keep talking about traveling from their home in Virginia to visit. Or worse, having _me_ come home."

Bill had been raised in both Britain and America and had dual citizenship. 

"Mom and Da keep trying to tell me to _get out_ and do things," Bill huffed. "So does my therapist. But I guess I missed you." He drank the remaining of his water and signaled the bar tender for another. "What about you, though? You must be getting up to something… or _someone_?" He nudged John. 

"Not really," John chuckled. " _Although_ the woman who interviewed me for the locum work at the GP Surgery was flirting with me a bit. Well, more or less a bit."

"Ah, that's Three Continents Watson, for you. No one can resist your charm, you dirty boy." 

John snorted and spit out his drink in the glass, a furious blush crept up his cheeks. He laughed a little uncomfortably, scratched at the back of his neck.

"I have another interview on the 31st," he said to change the topic from his sex life. "It's at a school."

"The 31st? That's Sunday, isn't it? Bit of an odd date to have an interview."

John shrugs, "It seemed like it was the only day the professor could do. By the sound of it he was swamped by paperwork and students nagging him about questions. He had to put me on hold about three times because of it."

Bill raised his eyebrow. "That's a bit of a range, don't you think? A General Practitioners and a school? Why do you want to teach anyway, John?"

"The job is to lecture a few times a month about medicine. Mostly about surgeries to the students but sometimes to the general public about how to prevent getting the flu or something. I figured why not? Better to keep my options open."

For the next hour they talked and John made sure to stay off the topic of the war or anything that might trigger Bill's memories of being shot.

When they parted, they agreed to meet again soon and to keep in touch. But John couldn't help but notice that Bill kept looking skittishly back at him, looking over John's shoulder for something he couldn't find.

Sunday Morning, January 31, 2010

It was cold, _too_ cold even for late January. John was bundled up in various layers of jumpers, scarves and a heavy green coat. Perhaps he had made the wrong decision in having the cabbie drop him off a few blocks away from the College. He'd thought a brisk walk would do him some good before the interview but now he was thoroughly regretting it.

He noticed a few police cars whiz by him as he neared his destination but John paid it no mind until he saw the large crowd gathered by one of the buildings at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. 

He jogged up, trying to be an observer and fit in with the gaggle of young students and faculty. "Excuse me," he asked a young woman, who looked just as frozen as he felt. "What's going on?"

She simply shrugged him off, annoyed that he had bothered her, and continued talking in hushed tones to her mate.

John cursed beneath his breath. For some reason he had to know what was going on. Maybe it was a military instinct-- or the childish curiosity that made one want to know if there was a Father Christmas, staying up all night to see if he came down the chimney and ate all the biscuits. 

Above the heads of the crowd he saw yellow tape and, uniformed officers speaking, blocking off the crowd's view of whatever was going on.

_Bugger this_ , John thought. Discreetly, avoiding the horde, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away as if he had simply gotten _bored_ and was going on his way. No one was paying him any mind.

He went to where there was no crowd, slipped through the barricades, and ducked behind a police car, hidden. From his vantage point John could finally see what was really going on. 

The crime scene was barren except for a lone D.I., the same one who was interviewed about the serial suicides on the telly. The man looked distressed as he paced the short stretch of pavement while twisting a lighter between his fingers. 

A man wearing a crime scene suit came out of the nearest building and started to make his way toward the D.I. The man in the protective suit had an odd face with a smug expression. His hair wouldn't have been out of place in the 1950s. 

The D.I. looked hopeful for a moment. "Tell me you have some good news, Anderson." His voice was gravelly and tired.

"Freak's dead," the dark-haired woman who'd also been on the telly interrupted as she stepped out of the building and joined them. 

"Shit," the D.I. grumbled. He took out of pack of fags from his pocket and lit one up. "You're sure it's Sherlock?"

"Who else?" The woman scoffed. "Looks like he took someone out with him. There's a dead cabbie in there too."

"The cab driver was shot through the heart, sir," the rat-faced man reported. "Looks like with a military-issued sniper rifle, an L96A1. Found the bullet in the dead center of the heart of the cab driver, name of Jefferson Hope if we can assume by the ID in his wallet. I'm guessing by the trajectory that the shot came from another one of these buildings." The smug man sounded a bit impressed. 

"Freak, on the other hand, has the same M.O. as the serial suicide victims. Seizure. Choked on his own vomit. Asphyxiation." He paused. "Could this have anything to do with the suicides?" 

At that moment John's eyes darted from the police to the entranceway of the building. Two men were carrying a stretcher, the body of either this _Sherlock_ or the cab driver, no doubt.

He watched intently as the men began to load the body into the ambulance. The pale arm of the victim fell from the stretcher. In his hand was a dark blue scarf. Suddenly, the hand loosened its grip and the scarf fluttered away in the wind.

John turned away and made his way back to the street. He had no business being here anymore. He'd seen so much death; corpses were the norm in Afghanistan, especially for an army doctor. But for some reason, seeing this affected him a little. It _hurt_ his heart. It didn't make any sense. He didn't know these men. He had no attachment to them or this place. So why did it feel like he was being torn apart from the inside?

He wrapped his coat tighter around himself as he walked away from the crime scene, the crowd, and the College, and became lost in his own thoughts. He barely noticed the car speeding toward him.

"Oi! Watch it!" John yelled as a black Bentley almost ran him over. 

Unexpectedly, the passenger side door opened and a man in a three-piece suit stepped out. He seemed in a hurry, his face slightly flushed, his eyes wide. "Quickly, what happened? What did they find?"

"Excuse me?" This man was infuriating. He wasn't going to bother to apologize but was instead demanding answers?

"Forgive me," the man smiled enigmatically. He straightened his posture, pretended to dust his suit as he retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket and quickly wiped his brow. His face changed from someone in a panic to a man who was calm, cool and collected, someone who was used to wearing a mask. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in towards John. "Did they find someone at Roland-Kerr Further Education College?"

"Um, yeah." _This was weird._ "Two people, actually. A cabbie and someone named Sherlock. Ambulance took them away maybe five minutes ago. They're dead." He wasn't going to spare any bedside manner for this bloke.

But the man's face took John off guard. His body was still standing tall, though perhaps slightly tenser. But his face… he barely noticed a difference. But something _had_ changed. John just couldn't place it.

"Did you know one of them?" John asked.

"I would like to think so," the man whispered softly. He jerked his head up, and looked at John, at though he was finally seeing him for the first time. The man eyed him up and down, making his own observations. John felt itchy; this umbrella man was almost looking at him under a microscope like John was the petri dish. The man's head seemed to look around John sometimes, looking behind him. "What's your name?"

John stiffened defensively. "John." Simple. Don't give away too much. Don't let him have the upper hand. "And you?"

The man let out a low chuckle. "I am everyone and no one." He looked up towards the sky, his eyes glazed over as if in deep thought. He turned his gaze back to John, but _not_ at him, behind him. "Forgive me once more. What's your surname, John?"

John suppressed a growl deep from his chest. "Why do you keep looking at my back?"

That seemed to return the man's attention back to John's face for a microsecond. "I do apologize, but you are mistaken," he said with sickening sweetness.

"Yes, you are!" John yelled hysterically "You're doing it right now! Staring at my back! Is there something there? Did someone put something on my back?" He reached his hand over and felt his back; nothing. Frantically, he took his coat off to see if something was stuck to the back. Nothing.

"What the fuc—" John stopped and spun around in the street.

The man and the Bentley were gone.

Sunday Night, January 31, 2010

John left a message at the recruiter's office at the College to politely let them know he was no longer interested in the job. He called the number Dr. Sawyer _(please, John, call me Sarah)_ had left him and let her know that he accepted the job offer and he could start as soon as possible.

That night he ate Chinese takeaway alone at his 'flat'. He celebrated by lounging on his sofa, watching some crap telly while the boxes of takeaway were strewn about the place. He'd clean the mess up in the morning. Usually he'd clean it up right away but he was too tired after a day like today.

At the end of his meal he cracked open his fortune cookie. As he munched, he read his 'fortune':

There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.

John Watson couldn't think of a statement that was more true of his life right now.

And yet…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading. The next chapter will be up in two weeks.


	3. A River of Tears

Sunday Morning, March 28, 2010

John turned off the tap and followed Sarah out of the shower. She hadn't reached for her towel yet which presented the perfect opportunity for John. He came up behind her, nuzzling her neck and cupped her breasts. Sarah relaxed in his embrace and leaned back, their lips meeting.

"Mmm, John," Sarah sighed into the kiss. "We just finished."

John smiled. "How about another round, then?"

Sarah laughed lightly and grabbed her silk robe. "Well it's ten o'clock in the morning and _I'm_ going to have some breakfast. Care to join me?"

They sat together rather domestically on the sofa. In front of them on the coffee table was a simple breakfast of toast and juice. Sarah had her legs tucked underneath her on the couch as she ate and flipped unceremoniously through the channels on the telly. John took one or two bites of his toast and ignored the rest of his meal, content to read weekend edition of his favorite newspaper.

There had nothing more about the serial suicides since that morning in January. John had read the papers religiously to see more on the case but turned up nothing. There weren't even obituaries for a Sherlock (and honestly, how many Sherlocks were there?) or Jefferson Hope. It seemed like some sort of cover-up. Either that or the Met was hushing up the victim's families, biding their time, and collecting more evidence in order to catch the killer. But John doubted that. 

Instead the papers were running stories like [British 'Hurt Locker' soldier wins top bravery award](http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/10073392), [Council cost-cutting 'risked lives' after flats fire](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/london/8587954.stm) and Brook Party Gaining Rise.

"Ooh," Sarah let out in surprise and smacked his arm roughly. "John! Look at the telly! There's been an explosion at Baker Street!"

John looked up from the paper. She was right. 'BREAKING NEWS' blared from the top corner of the screen. The reporter was in front of a block of flats, thick dark billing smoke behind her. There were fire trucks, police and ambulances all around, too many to count at a glance. She was screaming into her mic above all the commotion.

_"I'm standing here in front of 221 Baker Street,"_ the reporter's voice was unfailingly pleasant, her teeth were practically glowing from all the bleach, and her smile never faded. How appropriate of her, John thought with sarcasm. _Where an explosion, a gas leak I am told, happened just over fifteen minutes ago."_

John crinkled his nose. 221 Baker Street. That sounded awfully familiar. He felt his stomach drop. Did one of his patients or colleagues live there?

The studio anchor tried to look interested. _"Were there any residents at home, Diana? Any causalities or injuries?"_

The reporter waited for the delayed feedback before she answered the question. _"Well, Tom we've learned that 221 B and C were empty at the time of the accident. 221 A may have been occupied at the time of the explosion."_

For a moment Diana seemed to be distracted, darting her head back and forth off screen from the camera's view and back to the camera. Suddenly, she darted off the screen, her perfect hair becoming undone while the cameraman following her, the movement jumpy. _"Detective Inspector!_ she cried as she ran to a man with silver hair. _Detective Inspector Lestrade! BBC News!"_

John stiffened when the Detective Inspector turned around to face the flushed reporter. This Lestrade was the same man from the serial suicides case, the same man who'd seemed to be the only one affected by the death of Sherlock at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He seemed to be popping up everywhere, didn't he?

_Detective Inspector, can you confirm any casualties in the gas leak at this time?"_

Lestrade scratched the back of his head. He kept his eyes low, speaking into her microphone and avoiding the camera like most. His voice was gruff with exhaustion. _"At this time we_ can _confirm the death of Marie Hudson of 221 A Baker Street—"_

Sarah and John gasped at the same time. John grasped her hand.

"It can't be true, John," Sarah began to sob. "Not that sweet old woman."

John didn't answer as he clutched Sarah's hand tighter. That's why 221 Baker Street had sounded so familiar. 

Mrs. Hudson was a patient at the clinic. She had a bad hip; John had prescribed her medication himself. He'd just seen her yesterday for a check-up. She'd been so sweet and brought biscuits for all the doctors and nurses. Sometimes she'd even stay late if she was John's last patient and they'd have a cuppa and chat over mundane things like the weather or who they thought was going to go home next on a reality show. Mrs. Hudson had even given him advice on his sister. Apparently her husband had been an alcoholic. He 'did bad things, dearie' was all she said. He'd been sent to prison years ago an act that she was very grateful for.

Please God, not her. John prayed. Please God.

Mrs. Hudson's picture flashed on the screen and John sank down beside Sarah. He held her as she wept into his shoulder, trying to put on a brave face as he was breaking inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me. The next chapter will come in the new year. Happy Holidays everyone. See you in 2013!

**Author's Note:**

> * Kudos are amazing and I will never stop asking for them, but getting comments, actual feedback from readers means so much. Taking five seconds out of your time can really make my day.
>   
> 
> * You can follow me on [tumblr](http://mm8fic.tumblr.com/).


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